


Rappaccini's Oubliette

by svegliatevi



Category: Dune - All Media Types, Dune Series - Frank Herbert
Genre: Gen, Poison, Snakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26426848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svegliatevi/pseuds/svegliatevi
Summary: Poisonous creatures often declared their true natures in brightly-colored flamboyance. Piter merely followed the designs of nature in demonstrating his own. His blue-stained eyes marked him as both poisoned and poisonous; he chose to emphasize the latter.Blue was, after all, the Harkonnen color.Piter contemplates his refusal to wear contact lenses and engages in some questionable reptile husbandry.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	Rappaccini's Oubliette

**Author's Note:**

> If Piter de Vries is Giacomo Rappaccini in this metaphor, his beautiful daughter is residual poison. Elaborate on that? [[DAVID LYNCH VOICE:] No.](https://i.redd.it/ye2hjxlyud121.jpg) Writing weird Piter content just happens to sustain my shriveled husk.

> _**For some purpose or other, this man of science is making a study of you. I know that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminates his face as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in pursuance of some experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a flower; a look as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature’s warmth of love.** _
> 
> _— Nathaniel Hawthorne, “Rappaccini’s Daughter”_

It was not in Piter’s nature to nurture living things. He knew this about himself. Indeed, he valued this about himself. Others, in their fathomless ignorance, considered it a shortcoming — but Piter upheld it as a virtue.

He had struggled enough to raise Feyd-Rautha, loath though he was to admit that such a puerile task posed him any difficulty. He did not particularly like the child, and liked him less year by year as he aged into a sullen, unpleasant young man. 

Beyond the fact that the mechanisms of procreation did not interest him greatly, Piter would never have suffered himself to father a child — even if it were to be a bastard like himself, to whom he would have as little obligation as his own father once had to him. Even with his prodigious Mentat memory, Piter could not recall the face of the man whose surname he bore. That man was no more than a scrap of irrelevant data, cast out of Piter’s mind to optimize its function.

It was not the case that Piter himself had never known a nurturing touch or a loving word. His mother, once, had loved him. She, too, was of little importance to him, but he could dimly remember her affection. More vividly, he recalled her death. It had imparted a lasting lesson: that death itself was anticlimactic. The event of true significance was the instant before a fall, when one still possessed the power to control fate.

Piter’s work granted him that same power. As an assassin, it was his responsibility to cut lives short, to hasten the fall of those destined to die.

Though he could not dispense any tenderness to human beings, there were living things that he cared for, albeit abstract ones. Piter could nurture concepts and tactics and schemes. He could nurture power, where other factors could be exploited in its interest. Statecraft was a living thing, in its way. Empires lived and breathed and bled.

And in a sense, his poisons were living things as well — ever-changing, developing until he had perfected them, each one raised to immaculate maturity. His intense interest in poison was perhaps enhanced by his twisting, but in truth, he had maintained it as one of his few passions since he was only a boy. He could not allow it to be written off as merely a consequence of his upbringing. 

There was a sting to the stigma of twisting that Piter had long since closed his heart to. He had once resented the implication that it made him a lesser Mentat, but as time wore on, he found it advantageous to be underestimated and unknowable, however much it abraded his considerable pride. He noticed how nobles looked at him with the thinly veiled fascination and disgust they did not spare for ordinary Mentats.

He had no interest in bending to the sensibilities of such dullards by wearing contact lenses, as Guildsmen did. The lenses in question were large and thick, made to sit upon the surface of the eye and cover its visible entirety, such that any blue-in-blue saturation would be concealed. Piter saw no purpose in doing such a thing. 

Blue was, after all, the Harkonnen color.

Even so, Harkonnen had offered more than once to purchase contact lenses on his Mentat's behalf. In turn, Piter had assured him, more than once, that they would not be necessary. "T'would be a waste, my lord." 

For Piter would not wear them. He would not do so voluntarily, nor would he be forced, compelled, or coerced. He would not lower himself thus. 

The both of them knew the lesson which Arrakis itself had wrought on the Baron's household: _waste not._

The great discomfort of the contacts’ insertion and removal was no particular object to him. Piter was no stranger to pain, and could tolerate such simple unpleasantness without fanfare. Being a man who had plucked the eyes from other men's heads on occasion, he was not squeamish about the organ itself.

But to wear contact lenses would be to signal an apology for his very presence. He knew such an apology was already anticipated — indeed, expected — to account for his twisting and for his tenure in Harkonnen service. He made no such overtures; he would show no shame in any of it.

No matter how rarely he felt the insidious scalding of shame in the privacy of his mind, it was not a bauble to be displayed for others. He could not allow anyone to know of it — least of all Harkonnen, who had forced it upon him.

It was true that House Harkonnen's great wealth and stewardship of Arrakis granted near-limitless access to melange. Piter would have felt foolish not to partake of the immense stores available to him, though in retrospect he ought to have found Harkonnen's encouragement more suspicious. He had offered it too freely — and Piter, for his part, had accepted too freely, knowing the consequences of addiction and yet allowing it to take place.

What bound him to his master contained no hint of loyalty or respect. No fondness drew them together. He did not like the old swine — and Harkonnen did not like him.

But Harkonnen was helpless without him, Piter knew: without a Mentat, he was little more than a great thrashing baby. He could not make informed decisions for himself. He could not analyze data as a Mentat could. He refused to countenance possibilities which he found too distasteful or inconvenient.

Piter loathed creatures such as that. He had learned this about himself many times throughout Feyd-Rautha's interminable childhood. 

Concealing his eyes would have been no more than a fruitless disguise. Poisonous creatures often declared their true natures in brightly-colored flamboyance. Piter merely followed the designs of nature in demonstrating his own. His blue-stained eyes marked him as both poisoned and poisonous; he chose to emphasize the latter.

Piter loved his poisons as he loved nothing else. Only these did not disappoint him. From time to time they frustrated him; they faltered, or did not function as he expected — but even so, he loved them in his only capacity to love, incomprehensible as it was to others. He nurtured them in his only capacity to nurture.

In the confines of his laboratory, Piter toiled on his latest innovation. The world of poisons was vast, a discipline as ancient as death itself. The tried and true methods had their place, but poison-sniffers were ubiquitous, and they were becoming more refined with every successful detection. 

Something capable of subverting their heuristics was a necessity in any war of assassins — and one too often overlooked. Piter aimed to occupy that niche.

A courier had been set to deliver certain materia on Piter's behalf by day’s end. He had entrusted the interception of the package to the captain of Harkonnen's personal guard, and Kudu had not disappointed. Having received it, he arrived promptly, and he asked no questions as he delivered the strange package by hand, towed on a flat, wheeled cart. Any anonymous guard or servant might have performed such a menial task, but Piter felt that he could not trust any other man not to tamper somehow with his long-awaited delivery.

Pleased by Kudu's unerring silence, his utter lack of intrusive nosiness — the likes of which Piter was otherwise forced to endure from the rest of the Harkonnen cohort — Piter flashed a toothsome animal smile at him and asked, "Do you know what I've sent for?"

"I wouldn't be foolish enough to look inside without your leave, no," Kudu answered, punctuating his reply with a carefully courteous, "Sir."

A barking chuckle escaped Piter's lips. "Ah-h-h, but would you care to know?"

The scissor-line of muscle in Kudu's jaw, a side effect of years spent chewing semuta, twitched. "If you would care to tell me," he said, ever cautious.

Running his fingertips along the edge of the parcel, Piter said: "Living venom. The specimen within this parcel is alive — note the ventilation, that it may breathe, and the notation here that it's to be handled upright. Such a fragile thing, in truth, this little life."

Kudu raised a brow, appearing to appraise the parcel in a new light. "I had my suspicions," he admitted, nodding toward the conspicuous ventilation holes, "but I don't make a habit of thinking long on such things, unless they concern the safety of the House. 'Tis not my business."

"Wise enough. One cannot fault you for that, Captain." Piter turned to wheel the parcel into the laboratory. Looking back at the guard captain, he added, "The Baron may look at my expenses as he pleases. There is no need to inform him of this — he already knows."

Kudu signalled his understanding with a sharp salute. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "I’ll leave you to it, then."

"Indeed! As you will, Captain.” Piter glanced over his shoulder. “You may count yourself a rare recipient of my gratitude, if only for the moment."

A stifled smile hooked the corner of the guard captain's rigid mouth, drawing it upward ever so slightly.

Piter touched finger to forelock in his customary sardonic salute, and nudged the heavy door shut behind him with his foot. The lock engaged with a series of heavy clicks, and Piter was once again alone in the pleasantly noxious atmosphere of his laboratory. 

Yet not, in truth, entirely alone.

At last, he opened his long-awaited parcel. Within the crate, a modest terrarium housed a coiled viper native only to far-away worlds. The species was few in number and made its home only in specific biomes which were impossible to cultivate on Giedi Prime, Lankiveil, or harsh Arrakis; thus, Piter had to look far outside the Baron’s web of fiefdom for such a prize. 

Harkonnen wealth made the acquisition itself a simple enough task. Though the specimen was dreadfully expensive by most standards, she was a trifling expense for the Baron — despite the strain of certain plots and schemes to come, which of late had been taking new precedence in his coffers. 

Piter had been quite pleased when Harkonnen had not argued with him about the merits of the purchase. It had been simple to convince the Baron that the viper would be vital in further refining the experiment which Piter had taken to calling “residual poison.” Although the Baron feigned disgust at much of Piter’s morbid talk, he was willing to entertain the artistry and innovation of residual poison. He even deigned to demonstrate some enthusiasm for the project, sparing no expense to facilitate Piter’s experiments. No doubt, he understood the utility of such a poison; he knew that it could be used for House Harkonnen’s benefit.

Harkonnen so encouraged Piter’s exploration of residual poison that he allowed him to bid freely for the viper, knowing that he would be judicious as ever with Harkonnen funds. The substantial cost posed no issue. Rather, it was locating the specimen at all which had been the trial. So rare, so lovely, and so deadly was she that she could count herself responsible for the death of at least one man in the course of her capture — or so Piter had been told, much to his delight.

Revealed by the thick glass walls of her transport cage, the viper watched Piter with eyes as dark and alien as his own. 

Her long journey had introduced great tension into her affect, but she appeared to have weathered it well enough. Piter waited some time for her to settle before attempting, with greatest care and no small amount of protective equipment, to move her into the large terrarium he had prepared in advance.

When she coiled around the long-handled reptile hook and reared at Piter, he could not help but laugh. 

“My dear lady!” he scolded, mockingly indignant. “Be still, you wily thing; I think you shall like this arrangement well enough, once you’ve caught scent of your next meal.” 

Ordinarily, he spoke very little in the confines of his laboratory. Not a soul alive dared to disturb him in this place if they had any sense, and he had no need to speak other than to amuse himself. The harsh whipcrack of his voice, the tolling bell of his laughter, the ambient contempt for all things that radiated from the very sound of his presence — it was all amplified in the single space he truly felt was his own. 

His personal quarters had once been occupied by another Mentat, and would be once more when he himself was executed: an inevitability, though not yet close at hand. For the time being, the laboratory was his alone; Harkonnen had built it to his specifications exactly. Like a basking serpent himself, Piter luxuriated under the cruel light of its many glowglobes.

He maneuvered the snake carefully, clicking his tongue in approval as she dropped into her enclosure. The thick curvature of her body landed in the new terrarium with a muffled thud, and her tongue flickered as she examined her new surroundings.

After sealing the enclosure, Piter allowed the creature another moment of respite; it was necessary to ensure her cooperation, and his own safety. He busied himself instead with a mortar and pestle: prior to the snake’s arrival, he had prepared a selection of rare insects to process for other experiments. He smiled to himself as he crushed their exoskeletons by hand, grinding them to toxic dust one by one. 

Piter treated such things with greater tenderness than he did anything else. Though he would provide the snake with a semblance of care — to ensure that it retained its fitness as a specimen for as long as his experiments required — he did not do so out of any affection, and he did not expect the creature's affection in return. It pleased him to know that it would never feel love. It would never presume too much of him.

Before long, it would inevitably die; he would kill it himself, or allow it to die, though he would not do so flippantly. It was only a specimen, but it was a valuable one. 

As a specimen, it had no need for a name. It was not a pet or a companion animal. Piter had no interest in such things, but he appreciated the creature in his way. Its sinuous beauty and its curious yet aloof demeanor were pleasant traits, but Piter did not permit himself any attachment to it. He purchased it only for its utility, and he planned to use it until it was used up.

The best way to afford the creature his respect was to poison it.

Residual poison was still imperfect. It risked killing a subject inadvertently even after application of the antidote, but the effects of studying the snake in tandem with the poison held merit. Piter planned to extract samples of the viper’s venom before poisoning her, allowing him to study the venom’s properties independently — and to experiment with incorporating it into his own poisons. Then, when the time was right, he would introduce his poison to the snake.

For a day, Piter merely observed her as he worked, ensuring that she adjusted to her new environment. He fed her, noting her enthusiasm for live prey as she busied herself with a large rat. He found that she was far larger than he was told to expect, the length of her body thick and gravid. He was no herpetologist, but he made a note to maintain a record of any such data which risked skewing his ensuing experiments. The snake’s exact size and weight were critical measurements.

Upon returning to his laboratory the next day, Piter found the viper curled in her terrarium, basking under the warm light of a glowglobe positioned for just that purpose. She regarded him in a motionless stupor, her tongue flickering only occasionally. Though she did not seem ill at ease, she appeared lethargic. Occasionally, her body coiled tighter, muscles constricting.

Piter considered how best to retaliate if it happened that his suppliers had compromised the specimen in any way. Though other duties forced him to vacate the premises of his laboratory for much of the day, he continued to occupy his mind with such possibilities. He could not spare one of his well-trained assassins, but he allowed himself to consider the prospect of sending a strongly-worded message cylinder.

His apprehension proved to be needless. When Piter returned to his laboratory in the evening, he found that the viper had been even more valuable than he had anticipated.

By the time of his arrival, she had already begun giving birth, and had successfully expelled several hatchlings. Their small, coiled bodies were still covered in a clear, slick membranes veined with gossamer-thin red strands. 

Fascinated, Piter watched one of the newborns rip its way free of the membrane and slither into the air for the first time, tasting its surroundings eagerly. It was thin and fragile, no larger than a twig.

The others were not so lively. They remained pooled in their membranes like lifeless puddles, and did not emerge even after several minutes had passed.

The living newborn looked at Piter as soon as it became aware of his presence. Suddenly attuned to him, the little one lifted its head to track his movements. He watched it twist its body and stretch its jaws, growing accustomed to its own brand-new existence — and as far as he was capable of doing so, Piter found himself charmed by it.

The gravid viper continued her labor, birthing more seemingly stillborn snakelings. Piter donned a pair of gloves and set about removing the young from the terrarium, debating how many to keep for his own experiments and how many might be sold off to recoup the price of their mother. 

He prepared a basin of clean water and began to clean each of the viper's offspring, stripping the filmy tissue from their delicate bodies with slow, methodical movements; he did not wish to damage the specimens, though most were dead. He observed the dead closely as he processed them; they were smaller than their living sibling, but otherwise well-formed. 

The surviving hatchling had already punctured its membrane with its own egg-tooth, but required Piter’s assistance to free itself completely. It was energetic as he handled it, shooting forward in his grasp, twisting backward to snap clumsily at his knuckles. Piter knew quite well that juveniles had little control over their own venom, making them just as dangerous as a mature specimen, and handled the animal with all due caution.

He contained it within a temporary enclosure before continuing to process the dead, piercing their slippery membranes and shucking them away into the shallow basin. He felt the gel texture of the tissue beneath his gloves; he observed the once-clean water clouding with strange fluids. Though it was an unexpected development, and a less than convenient one, Piter was willing to admit that attending to the live birth of a clutch of vipers made for a fascinating diversion.

The viper did not care what he did with her offspring. Though she was aware of Piter's movements at all times, she paid little mind to his hands in her terrarium as he removed each one. She did not recognize her own offspring as objects to nurture, merely as inconveniences of which to rid herself. 

Piter valued her temperament, her near-complete apathy. She would not care whether he poisoned her, so long as she could still eat raw flesh and bask beneath a warm light. A simple, dangerous creature.

The surviving juvenile continued to writhe and yawn in its own enclosure as Piter set the numerous dead aside, each small body laid out clean and straight. Idly, he considered preserving one in formaldehyde after his experiments concluded; it was the only form of sentiment he would allow himself. The rest, he planned to dissect or sell, for each one was nearly as valuable as its mother, and each possessed a venom gland, albeit a miniscule one.

Returning to the mother’s terrarium, Piter found that she had birthed the last of her young: a twisted, deformed creature, completely lifeless. Half of its body already hung from her mouth, and Piter allowed her to consume it.

"There you are, my lady," he murmured, watching nature take its course. "How thin you are now. A finer meal is in order, I think."

With another live specimen in his possession, Piter had far greater room to experiment than before. After the once-gravid viper had rested and fed once more, he collected a sample of her venom.

He would add the residual poison to her water supply the next day.


End file.
